


Locked Rooms

by plumedy



Category: Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon - Book, Canon - TV, Canon Compliant, Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dr Bell is welcome here at any hour. Even if he were not, nothing short of an elephant gun would keep him at bay."</p><p>- s01e02, <i>The Photographer's Chair</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Rooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsHorowietzky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHorowietzky/gifts).



“Polhem locks,” droned on the shopkeeper, “contain no pins, which baffles a thief who is accustomed to picking regular tumbler locks by lifting the pins with a picklock.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, and he, visibly indignant at my scepticism, started rummaging in the drawers of his oaken counter. At last he had apparently found what he’d been looking for, for he let out a triumphant ‘aha!’ and straightened himself. Being a scrawny sort of fellow, he had some difficulty in lifting the object; he puffed his white soft cheeks, exhaled through his nose, and hoisted up something that vaguely resembled a cast iron pomegranate.

This was probably the biggest Polhem lock I’d ever seen, and the idea of buying it almost made me laugh. It would have looked quite inadequate on my flimsy ancient door. But, though I did very much doubt that it would “baffle” the Doctor in any way, I knew it was sure to amuse him; and for a moment I was tempted.

“It was only manufactured ten years ago. And it’s used in America and Scandinavia, too – everyone agrees that it’s guaranteed to keep the thugs out.”

“Ah, but it’s not to keep the thugs out,” smiled I. “It’s to keep a friend entertained.”

And with this enigmatic remark, which I am sure must have given the fellow all the wrong ideas as to my circle of acquaintance, I made my leave.

Of course, if I were quite honest with myself, there was nothing new I could come up with. The queer unspoken competition into which the whole affair had turned over the past few years was evidently coming to an end. I confess it made me a little sad – I’d grown fond of Bell’s dramatic entrances and of how joyful he’d looked every time he managed to catch me unawares. Whenever he was about to visit me, I’d make sure to choose a different lock from my collection; he’d then dutifully pick it and proceed to lecture me on the use of housebreaking implements in the forensic trade; and it had turned into a good albeit strange tradition I was reluctant to break.

 _Still_ , I mused, trotting up my front staircase, _if breaking it is inevitable, I may as well invent an entertaining way to do so._

And that was when the idea struck me.

Though I slammed the door shut, I did not lock it. I knew that it was quite impossible to tell if it was locked or not without trying to open it first. And surely not even Bell’s intuition was that superhuman.

Then I looked at the clock. It was just half past nine; the last train from Paddington had arrived at nine fifteen. I had some half an hour left – enough to enjoy an evening newspaper and a few cups of tea with Swiss milk. Laughing to myself, I dragged my old armchair closer to the door, took out a dark lantern (which was, I’m bound to add, one of the Doctor’s more extravagant gifts), and immersed myself in the latest news concerning the strange and marvellous inventions of Otto Lilienthal.

Sure enough, precisely at ten o’clock I had heard the crunching of the gravel outside: someone was walking down the path, his light steps nearly inaudible behind the swish of the rain.

I turned the lantern down and gingerly drew the curtains apart. It was one of those deep, black autumn nights, and I had no idea how the Doctor was going to proceed in that darkness. But I could just make out his formidable figure, and certainly he was walking on with perfect confidence, the skirts of his coat flapping around his boots. Not even the knowledge of what was to come could take away from the fact that I watched him not without fascination.

Upon reaching my doorstep he cast a few glances here and there, turning his head sharply, and lowered himself on one knee. Off came the gauntlets. In a moment he was holding a double-ended pick in his right hand and a half diamond between his teeth – a sight which made it very difficult indeed for me not to give myself away.

Yet I made myself assume as solemn an expression as I could, and waited. Apparently he was, after all, quite unsuspecting of my proximity, because moments later I heard a soft scratch of metal against metal.

Knowing how deft Bell was with locks, I reacted immediately by bending forward, turning the doorknob, and hurling myself back against the backrest of the armchair.

The effect was spectacular. Though in that fraction of a second the Doctor had somehow managed to get to his feet, there wasn’t much else he could do, and so he all but burst into the house, narrowly avoiding a collision with my hallstand. For a moment the only sounds were his fumbling in the darkness and the dripping of the rainwater from his coat.

“Doyle!..” he said at last, softly, with an intonation I could not quite make sense of.

I turned up the lantern to look at him, and his expression was the most endearing mixture of shock, resentment, and pleasure I had ever seen.

“Well, if it were a real investigation, _that_ would be no help at all,” he grumbled, laying his lock picks on my table with a clatter. “Still, touché.”

“You may pick the lock on my bedroom door, if it makes you happier,” huffed I, tossing aside the newspaper and jumping to my feet. The Doctor turned to me and raised his eyebrows in faux sourness.

“That is _unsportsmanlike_ ,” he intoned after a considerable pause.

Well, I could not help laughing at that, and it turned out that he could not help laughing, either.

The affection I felt for him in that moment was as great as it was incongruous. Certainly I was unable to tell what the sentiment was prompted by – was it this nonsensical little game we’d kept up for such a long time?

“Ever a joy to see you, Doyle,” said the Doctor, and smiled.

For a moment I’d actually had to struggle not to embrace him. I’d never been brave enough to do that, but it was a close thing that day.

“Bell,” I gulped out.

“You’ve never used any Polhem locks, though.”

“No. I thought it would be rather unnecessary.”

“Quite right, too,” he said, watching me. “Which is why _I_ have brought one.”

And with that he calmly extracted from his pocket a formidable iron padlock.

“It did occur to me that you wouldn’t think it wise to use one of these. But I _would_ like to teach you to pick them - if you’d just give me a little of your free time and your patience?”

“As much as you like,” I responded, and I could swear I saw his eyes light up. He shook my hand, at any rate, and proceeded to drop the padlock on the table with just enough carefulness to avoid spilling my tea.

I realized then that it didn’t matter if the game was over. The end of one of them was really no more than the beginning of another.


End file.
